Happy Birthday

A Self-Insert Percy Romance

By Sienna Moony

Author's Note: Not much to say, really. I don't like Percy – that's Prongs's job.

This was finally what we decided on for the 50th story. Prongs is moving away soon and it will be much harder for us to produce the insane stories that we do. In the mean time, I'd like to dedicate this story to her. It's not complete yet, but I'll get there, I promise.

Happy birthday, Prongs. You're the spammiest of all the best friends.

Prongs's B-Day Present:


You know you love Percy too much when you find stories like these amusing.

The sun streams in through the wide windows in the upper hallways, causing the back of your neck to tingle with warmth. Not a sound can be heard in the peaceful walkway besides your own soft footfalls and awkward breathing. It would be the perfect solitude, if not for one small fact that gets in your way.

You're late for class.

You pick up the pace, your books jangling in the satchel at your side, your wand sticking out of your pocket uncomfortably. You curse your skirt and jog down the hall, desperate to get to your Transfiguration class before McGonagall notices you're missing. You're almost there when you round a corner - and run headfirst into a solid form. You fall backwards, and your first thought in that initial moment of dread is that you've just collided with Filch: detention for a month.

A pair of arms reaches out to grab you before you hit the ground, and you tentatively look up, sighing in relief. Looking gangly, but proud, a freckled, spectacled face peers down at you, shocked.

"Oh, h-hullo." Percy stuttered, a slight tinge coming to his cheeks. You wonder at his nerves as he quickly collects himself, releasing your arms from his grasp and straightening, his chin jutting outwards. You suppress a smile at how ridiculous he seems when trying to be superior.

"What are you doing in the hall?" He asks, remembering that you are, in fact, breaking the rules.

"I'm on my way to class." You explain, slightly annoyed with his attitude.

'Obviously,' You muse, 'Looks aren't everything.'

You see him contemplating whether or not to take points away from your house, and decide to add another element into the mix.

"What are YOU doing in the hall?" You demand, slyly. His back tenses and the red colouring returns to his face.

"I'm running a special errand for Professor Lupin." It's impossible not to notice the boastful tone in his voice and you find yourself regretting you even asked.

"Right, well, run along." You say, nodding to him. He blinks, apparently deciding whether to be irritated or amused.

"See you." He replies, departing down the hallway as you marvel at the lack of lecturing he laid on you. You watch him go, deciding what to make of the encounter, before you remember that you're in a hurry and break out into a run again. As you skid into your class and see McGonagall staring at you expectantly, a final though enters your mind before being wiped out by transfiguration equations:

"He's really not THAT bad."